


Responsible Adult (2011)

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:16:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution





	Responsible Adult (2011)

"Look, I'm sorry. If I had another choice, don't you think I'd make it?"

"So, what does that say about your trust in me, Lestrade?"

The DI sighed, "Oh, don't take that the wrong way. You know that I trust you and Sam together. It's not like this is the first time you've spent time alone with him."

"What's so important that you want to park him with me?"

"A crime scene."

"Oh, I see; you'd rather I did babysitting duty than do what I really want to do, which is solve a case."

"Sherlock, this is definitely a  _boring_  crime scene. Well below your standards. It will be tedious, long winded and take more than half the night, not to mention the paperwork." The homicide in question was what might have been an open-and-shut domestic dispute gone horribly wrong. The first police on the scene told him that the couple had been visited on numerous occasions before when their arguments had become too noisy for the neighbours to tolerate any longer. This time, however, there was a body.

"I'm bored. My standards change when I'm bored."

"This is not only a boring case, but it also has Anderson on Forensics."  _Now, don't tell me that you still want to come._  The DI knew that Sherlock's relationship with the Crime Scene Examiner had taken a turn for the even worse lately. He hoped it would be enough to deter the consulting detective. "I'm just asking you to keep an eye on him for an evening."

On the other end of the phone call, Greg could hear the sniff. "This isn't about Sam; you know I like him. It's about me missing a crime scene. Why not take him with you? We could all meet up there."

"Sherlock…what part of a messy crime scene with a murder victim's head bashed in with a cricket bat makes you think it is appropriate for a fourteen year old?"

"At that age, I would have given my right arm to see it."

The DI cast a glance at his nephew, who was playing a Grand Prix racing game on Greg's laptop. "Yeah, well, thank God, Sam is better adjusted than you were at his age. And besides, you remember the last time Sam met Anderson, it didn't go well. "

"Where's his mother? Isn't that what mothers do? Protect their offspring from the bullies and the sight of blood? Mine tried to, before Mycroft took over that role, and failed miserably at it."

"Carole's gone up to see our mum, who's just got home after a replacement knee operation. She's taken Sam's baby sister Angie, and his dad is overseas at some IT exhibition in Singapore. So, I agreed to take Sam for the week. Please, Sherlock. I'm really pressed for time here, and would appreciate you helping out."

When there was no snappy retort, Greg just crossed his fingers and hoped for the best. "I'll be over in about twenty minutes to drop him off- on my way to the scene."

oOo

John was tired and a bit bleary-eyed when he unlocked the front door of 221b. It had been a long shift at the hospital, but worth it for racking up some more points on his A&E re-qualification. He might not be able to be a surgeon any more, thanks to that Taliban bullet, but he was so bored with GP locum work that he had decided to try to get back into Emergency medicine. His shift ran from 4pm to 3am, and he was now ready to put his head down and get some serious sleep. The run of illnesses and injuries, many of which were alcohol-fuelled, had kept him constantly on the move for eleven hours. His feet hurt, his back was stiff, and his shoulder ached.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw that there was a light on the living room, but it was empty. He switched the desk lamp off.  _Sherlock must have forgotten to turn it off._  He wondered briefly whether he could be bothered to fix himself a cup of tea, but then realised he was really, really too tired to bother. He was heading for the stairs up to his bedroom when he heard the sound of someone retching.

He stopped in his tracks. Unmistakable- he'd been hearing it for most of the night as London's youth overindulged and ended up hurting themselves and others. There- it happened again. He sighed and returned to the hall.  _What's he got up to this time?_

He knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock, what's happening? Are you alright?"

A softly spoken reply: "John, please, just go away."

He sighed. In a firm doctor's voice, he replied "No, I'm coming in. You can't expect me to ignore this." He reached for the door handle.

As he pushed open the door, he was startled to see Sherlock right on the other side, blocking his way in. The bathroom light wasn't on, but there was a dim light from behind him. John looked at the tall brunet, who showed no signs of being ill. Sherlock just whispered, "Please, just go away. You can't help." Behind him, John heard the sound of someone vomiting again.

His eyes widened. "Who's in there with you, Sherlock?" He did whisper this, unconsciously mirroring his flatmate's volume.

"It's Sam, Lestrade's nephew. He just needs to do this alone."

John didn't bother to hide his incredulous surprise. "What on earth is a relative of Lestrade's doing here in our flat?" He was still speaking in a stage whisper.

"I'm looking after him, while Lestrade is investigating a crime scene. Sam is staying with him this week, while his parents are away."

"YOU have a  _sick_   _child_  in there? How old is he? Let me see him." This was delivered in a full-volume no-nonsense medical professional's tone.

Sherlock put an arm up that blocked John's entry at throat level. He spoke in an equally firm, but very quiet voice, "No, John. You coming in here is only going to make matters worse." He stepped out of the room and pushed John back into the hall, taking advantage of his height and John's amazement at being man-handled by a flatmate he knew loathed physical contact.

"Back up- into the living room, and I'll explain."

John was so stunned by the whole situation that he allowed himself to be pushed backwards. "Sherlock, what the hell ? If he has the flu or something, I can help. Did he eat something that disagreed with him? Has he been here all evening? How old is he? What did you feed him for supper? Maybe he's allergic?"

That brought a ghost of a smile from his flatmate. "Calm down,  _Doctor_  Watson. There is no need for any diagnostics. I know exactly what he is suffering and he doesn't need any medical intervention."

John looked suspiciously at the brunet and crossed his arms across his chest. "Start explaining, and do it fast, or I'm going in there, Sherlock. Lestrade should know better than to leave a child under your care."

That angered Sherlock. "For once, John, you are very wrong. Now just  _shut up_  and sit down. Or better still, fix yourself a cup of tea. And turn the microwave on; there's a heating pack in there- 2 minutes on high power. When the kettle's boiled, put some hot water in a mug with some honey and I will take them into him."

The two men stared at each other, for a moment of stalemate. Then the sound of retching interrupted their showdown, and John was in motion. He ducked under the arm that Sherlock threw out to restrain him, and bolted down the hall. He had the advantage of being smaller, and was halfway to the bathroom by the time Sherlock had managed to get his taller frame turned around.

As John pushed upon the door, be saw that the dim light was cast by a candle on the bathtub. The door banged back against the tiled wall with a clatter, and a howl of dismay came from a brown haired boy on his knees in front of the toilet. He vomited violently, his body wracked with spasms. John crossed to him just as Sherlock got to the door, and started to put his arm around the young lad's shoulders.

" _No! Don't touch him."_  Sherlock warned John, but it was too late. As soon as his arm made contact, the boy screamed out and tried to get away, throwing himself violently to the left, knocking John against the bath. The boy lunged towards the door that went into Sherlock's bedroom, scrabbling on his hands and knees to get away into the darkness of the room beyond.

Sherlock snarled at John. "Now you've done it. Just go  _AWAY_ , John. Please." They could both hear the sound of sobbing going on, muffled by bedclothes.

"Sherlock, what is going on!? He's clearly in trouble."

"Yes, John, and that's because of you. He's autistic and suffering his first major bout of IBS, and you crashing around like some wounded elephant means you might just have pushed him into a meltdown. Now, for God's sake, get out of here and leave him to me, will you?!" This was delivered in a whisper with all the venom that Sherlock could muster.

John looked at his flatmate's angry scowl and then into the darkness of the bedroom.  _Autistic. OH, I am a prat._

He got up from the floor of the bathroom and without a word went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on.

oOo

It was just past 4.30am. Sherlock had stayed with Sam in the dark bedroom for almost an hour, calming the boy down. When John had done what he had been told to do, he delivered the hot water and the heating pad to Sherlock, who tucked the wheat-filled soft bag into the curled up ball that was Sam. He held the cup against his own wrist until it had cooled down enough. John watched him from the hall. The brunet was sitting cross-legged on the floor about three feet from the bed, just talking to Sam in a very calm, quiet voice. John couldn't see Sam, but he heard him sit up suddenly. Sherlock pushed the kitchen's plastic rubbish bin close to the edge of the bed, when he threw up again. He handed him the box of tissues and then the warm honeyed water. "Drink it slowly. Tiny sips. Count to twenty between each sip. Keep going until it's empty."

Eventually, the boy's breathing steadied and became deeper. Sherlock stood up and grimaced. His left leg had gone to sleep, but he crept out, leaving the door ajar so he could still hear.

Now, sitting across from John sipping his own cup of tea, the brunet looked tired. John was tired too, but so wired from the events that he knew he wouldn't sleep. He'd already apologised to Sherlock.

"It's not me you need to apologise to, John. It's Sam. Doctors who try to treat teenagers on the Spectrum just don't understand how stressful it all is. Hormones muck everything up. Sam's fourteen. He's just starting puberty. The gut troubles that have plagued him on and off all his life are going to get worse. Whatever coping strategies figured out during childhood just don't work anymore. I remember lying in bed thinking that I could actually feel my bones growing. Everything...just _hurts._ "

"Irritable Bowel Syndrome- is it common then?"

"If only 'irritable' was an adequate description. Most people who get the condition do so in their twenties, but for us it can happen earlier. It manifests in unbelievable pain. At least it did with me, and by tonight's episode, it has with Sam, too. You have no idea how frightening it is the first time it happens. I was convinced I was dying, when every movement, noise, sensation just seems to be like a knife twisting in my gut."

"If the carers don't know about it, it can be terrifying for them, too. They panic and do just about everything wrong. I remember screaming my head off, being literally dragged down the hall by paramedics who thought I had a ruptured appendix. I'm just glad it happened for Sam when he was here, rather than staying with Lestrade. He would have been freaked by it all, and been sure that Sam was dying of something horrible. Probably call an ambulance and subject him to the terrors of a hospital visit like I was."

John gestured with a tip of his head to the table between the two windows. Six pill bottles were lined up. "Is one of those a treatment?"

"No. This is the first time he's had it. I expect his GP will want to prescribe mebeverine hydrochloride or TCAs; he's already on SSRIs. That's the classic approach. But, it assumes you can take a pill and keep it down. Strangely, vomiting actually helps. It relieves some of the abdominal muscle tension that comes when the bowel itself is cramping."

"So, what are all those for?"

"Lestrade left them when he dropped Sam off. We had a perfectly acceptable evening, by the way. I fixed him some soup and a salad, which he ate in front of the sports coverage of the Grand Prix in Dubai. Turns out his current fascination is with Formula One racing cars. His phone alarm was set to tell him when to take his medicine, and he made no fuss about it. Actually, what surprised me is how little has changed over the past twenty years." He waved dismissively at the line-up. "Melatonin to help him sleep; clomipramine for anxiety, methylphenidate hydrochloride for ADHD- I can't take that one. In fact, that's the interesting point about this stuff. Each and every patient has their own reaction to the meds. Some of it can help moderate the symptoms, in some people, some of the time. For others, it just makes things worse. I can't abide SSRIs, for example- had a severe serotonin reaction once – ended up scaring the School Nurse half to death. There are just too many ifs…"

"Will he be better in the morning?"

"The worst of it should have passed. I'll talk to Lestrade when he comes to pick him up in the morning, and explain things. I hope that will help Sam get through the next one better."

John yawned.

"Go to bed. There is no need for you to stay up. I can handle this."

John stood up and stretched. "Shouldn't you try to get some sleep?"

"No, I'm going to write his mother a note. She might appreciate some advice from someone who has been through it all before."

"Surely there are…I don't know, support groups? You know, parents who can help each other?"

Sherlock gave a little wry smile. "Most parents are learning as they go along. And no one ever thinks to ask the person who is actually going through it, although it has to be said we aren't always the best at explaining what is going on." He looked sad. "When I was his age, my father just hired in a series of carers who were paid not to listen to me. Everything was done the hard way. If I can help her in any way learn to listen to what Sam has to say, and to understand what it means, then I will do so." He opened his laptop.

John watched him. "I hope I'm awake when Lestrade comes to collect him. I'd like to apologise to Sam in person."

"It's not your fault, John, any more than it is the fault of the whole medical profession. And, if you'd like, I can arrange for you to meet Sam in better circumstances. You might find it…educational."

 _In more ways than one, Sherlock_ , thought John as he dragged his weary bones up to bed.


End file.
